Shards – and what to build from them
by janinePSA
Summary: Holmes/Watson pairing, Watson is married and both men try to deal with that, a little angst maybe and hopefully a happy ending
1. Your feet will bring you

Holmes/Watson, because I cannot imagine anyone who saw the movie can leave this unresolved ...

I do not own anything of course.

**Shards – and what to build from them**

Chapter 1: Your feet will bring you ...

His feet seemed to have a mind of their own. Leading him back to Baker Street.

John Watson had left his clinic early today and was not expected home for dinner for at least another hour. He wasn't sure it was a good idea to visit Holmes, as they had not parted on the best terms the last times he had seen him. But for now, he let his feet take over.

Because there was a big gaping hole in his life where a cynical, scruffy, black-eyed detective should be and that was a really uncomfortable thing to live with. You had to be so careful to manoeuvre your way around it to not accidentally fall in. And once you had fallen into the hole it took a lot of energy to climb and crawl out to get back to the rest of your life again.

They had really been living together far too long and far too close, Watson reasoned, as he pondered this. And at an age when it was high time for a man to get married and start a family of his own. A fact, which had become blatantly obvious to Watson when his built up sexuality had started to release itself via the only channel available. At first he had dismissed this as a simple redirection phenomenon, a mere substitutional appetite, but it had grown more and more scary with time.

The day he woke after a mindless drinking night in the sitting room with Holmes' head resting in his lap, heart pounding, thoughts racing and dark desires starting to drowsily rear their heads in the depths of his consciousness, making him rush from the apartment in a frantic flight was the day that Mary's gaze fell on him, as he stood all dishevelled and panting in the park, and she smiled at him. Surprised at his own unusual boldness he had walked over and chatted her up that very instant.

And against all odds, she had found him charming. She had been his saving angel. It was marvelously comforting to come home to her every night, although he wished Holmes would stop acting so childishly jealous and be happy for him. Or at least, that he would just accept the fact of his marriage and make a more relaxed ongoing of their friendship possible.

Watson sighed as he mentally made his wager on how likely that was to happen.

He missed him so dearly. And maybe that was precisely the reason he should not pay him a visit, but give them both the chance to get beyond that unhealthyly close relationship with each other, but really he had come quite a long way already and surely no man could be expected to go against his longings all the time. He had decided against seeing the friend each day anew for the whole week now (and of course Holmes had not called on him either, the stubborn brick) and Watson swore to himself he would not meet him again for at least another week after today.

But for now, he would indulge.

* * *

Holmes had not answered the door, proving Watson's expectations right before he even entered the dark and stuffy room. Blinking as his eyes adapted to the gloominess, Watson didn't bother to find his friend and made for the tightly shut curtains directly. As he ripped them open with one harsh gesture, only the slightest whimpering told of other lifeforms in the vicinity. Still not turning round, the doctor went on to open the window, taking a deep reliefed breath before commenting dryly: "Are you trying to suffocate yourself? Or is it a new experiment to find a way of staying alive without oxygen?"

"Curious. When you were living here, you used to knock."

The bitterness in Holmes' voice stang and made Watson finally face him.

The picture was familiar, although there seemed to be a twist to the more sinister. Or was it just that he was not quite as used to it anymore? That his eyes had become accustomed to the soothing sight of clean tablecloth, snow-white linen and a balmy smile on calmingly regular features, the demure charms of his wife? The place was a mess, as usual, and so was its inhabitant, likewise as usual. But something seemed to be different, something Watson could not quite place his finger on. It all seemed so much more dreary, so much more deeply desperate, so … deprived of all joy.

Watson suppressed a shudder, was it that he had, in the short course of his marriage, already risen so far above this kind of life that he suddenly saw it with the eyes of a any ordinary member of society? Had he socially risen above the most brilliant mind in Britain to pity it? Pitying Holmes seemed like a sacrilege, crushing his dignity, like spitting right in his face and Watson felt his stomach starting to turn.

With a nervous grin he tried to hide his emotional turmoil and met Holmes' murky and bloodshot eyes that betrayed the toxics circeling his veins. "As a matter of fact, I did knock, but obviously you were to plastered to register it. Which seems quite a feat since even in this state it used to be near impossible to get anything past you."

The dark-haired man scowled and rose from his spot among the debris, carefully eyeing his former flat-mate.

"But of course I'm terribly sorry to disturb you in your cosy oxygen-free dwelling in the darkness. Stupid of me to assume anyone would want to spend their time in airy and bright environments." Watson went on, registering by the twitching lips of the detective that the latter grew annoyed and impatient with his ramblings. Well, he'd be dammed if he would be intimidated by Sherlock Holmes, especially in his present state. So he pulled a face and added: "Heavens, when did you wash last?"

The dark eyes spat fire at Watson and despite his resolution the doctor involuntarily took at step back. There was something eerie about Holmes, the drugs turning his face into some kind of cold mask. "What do you want?" he asked, his voice low and calculating.

Taken aback, Watson started to stammer: "Well, pay you a visit of course. Does it surprise you that I felt like visiting a friend?" Holmes held his gaze for a moment, then his face started to soften and the faintest resemblance of a smile began to form around the corners of his mouth.

Relief flooded the doctor's stomach warmly and he went on without thinking: "Not much to do at the clinic today and Mary doesn't expect me for dinner until 7, so I thought I could drop in for a moment." He had not noted how Holmes' lips had been pressed into a thin line again at the mention of his wife's name and was surprised to find the smaller man turning away from him. "Too kind of you, my dear Watson, to donate a moment of your precious married-life-time to me before rushing back to your wife. But we don't want to keep her waiting now, do we? You should not overstretch your charity."

Recognizing the tone, Watson felt frustration rushing up, as he lapsed into the ever same sermon: "For god's sake Holmes, when will you stop being so childish and accept Mary as part of my life. She is my wife now, you know."

The dark man's tense shoulders shivered a little as Watson stood watching him for any reaction to his words. As he turned, his eyes had taken on a feverish glaze, a sadistic streak distorting his lips. Looking directly at his friend he abruptly proclaimed: "Mary is a slut." The taller man's face turned pale with anger and he clenched his fists, bewilderment coloring his voice as he questioned: "What?!?" Holmes took a step closer to him, provocatively looking him in the eye. "Go ahead, hit me." "I don't want to hit you." Watson answered irritated but truthfully. The smaller man licked his lip for a second, never giving an inch and in that same calmly arrogant voice added: "She came by here, complaining that you were an unsatisfactory lover: And I fucked her." The doctor's knuckles collided with Holmes' face before he even registered the movement, forcefully hurling the smaller man to the ground.

Breathing heavily Watson looked down at his oddly satisfied-looking friend, spitting: "Do you expect me to believe this?" Holmes looked at him as if he thought him to be very simple and answered with a slight chuckle. "Of course not."

Caught by the gaze from these dark and intense eyes, Watson stared at the man sprawled out beneath him, lip split neatly and a little trail of blood oozing up from the delicate flesh. He felt his mind go blank and his throat go dry and then the familiar rush of blood to the hip-region. Damn, that must have become a habit. Embarrased he turned away hastily, pressing a defeated hand to his face, exhaustedly kneading the skin. "Why are you doing this?" he asked consternated.

As no reply came, Watson looked back to his friend, but the latter had turned his head away from him, a strangely empty expression on his face. "Well?" he pressed, desperation in his voice, but still there was no reaction.

Frustration gripping him tighter than ever, Watson felt that he could not bear this any longer, grabbed his walking stick firmly and made for the door without a word of good-bye. As he slammed the door ever so slightly (since he really wasn't the kind of man who slammed doors) Watson felt utterly childish and annoyed with himself.

Letting himself out onto the street, he wondered how this visit, that he had craved so much, had turned out to be such a confusing total mess. His mind fruitlessly obsessed with these thoughts, he felt like crying, maybe for the first time since he had been a little boy, and let his feet take over, leading him back to Mary's comforting arms.

TBC

_The style of the story is going to change during chapters, I hope it throws no one off._


	2. Unholy addictions

**Fits off all, a big thanks to the lovely reviewers out there: **

**Hagstrom, agenttmk, Mus4u, mildetryth, Jennistar1 and Lady Sally**

**You guys made my day! :-D**

**Concerning this chapter, I have to admit that I have never read the Sherlock Holmes-novels, so I have no idea how Holmes and Watson got to know each other. But since this fic is movieverse and the movie doesn't tell us either I felt it was ok to just make something up. Hope no one minds.**

**I guess the books don't fit the movie all that well either.**

**And, as I said, totally different style in this chapter and I will be shifting between styles for the rest of the story.**

Chapter 2: Unholy addictions

He was here. But he is gone now.

You lie awake, on your bed, eyes wide open, sleep won't come, not unless you're thoroughly drugged and right now, you are frighteningly sober. And you are miserable. You have been miserable for weeks now and you feel very strongly that you can not live without him in your life.

Which is obviously very irrational thinking. Clearly there is no connection between your body being fully functional and him living with you, well yes, in a way there is, because he can fix you up every time you come home bruised and damaged, but that is really not what you meant and completely irrelevant to the situation, you just pointed it out for the sake of the argument, anyway: There is no direct causal connection between your existence and him living in the same house or even only keeping you company from time to time.

You like to wallow in your inclination towards substance abuse but you used to refuse to depend on other people. At least in that other life of yours that you can scarcely recall.

Now it is evident that you can not seem to find any sense in staying alive, day after day, there is nothing, no matter how desperately you search your mind and if your mind holds nothing of the kind, what should the comparatively narrow rest of the world offer?

You try to remember what was there before him, what kept you going, back then, but it all seems a haze, nothing clear, nothing stable. Just lots of innovative chemicals that make your brain somersault and getting into fights and now and then solving riddles, because they present a challenge to your ever hungry intellect and admittedly because you like to show people that you're a superior thinker and last but not least, because you figured you could make some money of that, which you can not completely do without.

But more often than not you are in no state to work, which is why you take shared lodgings to get a cheaper rent and you don't mind really, because you rarely meet the other fellow, who keeps to himself, just like you prefer to. And then one day Mrs. Hudson declares in a very satisfied tone that she has found a respectable lodger now, a doctor, and you despise her thoroughly. But when the new fellow arrives you do not despise him as you expected to, because you can tell he is a decent man through and through and you just cannot find it in your heart to have anything against him and anyway it can be useful to have a doctor in the house.

An idea that proves itself true enough a little later, when you knock at his door in the middle of the night, to have him stitch your shoulder back together. He doesn't really mind and he is genuinely curious, so you tell him about the case and he has some ideas of his own that give fresh stimulus to your thinking. The next day, he comes to your room saying he came up with a few more theories and would you be interested in hearing him out. And somehow, you don't mind his company.

So it starts with the two of you talking and arguing the days away and he comes out with you on investigation because you did not have the heart to refuse him and anyway it can be useful to have a partner out there with you, to watch your back.

And with time a friendship grows and the closer you get, the less you can hide. And he starts to take care of you, admittedly in a slightly patronising way, but you don't mind that much because really, he cleans you up a little, keeps you from falling too hard, keeps you, if not on a straight, then at least on a bumpy but ongoing track. And suddenly, to your astonishment, you find yourself on financially solid grounds and able to pay the rent for six months in a row.

From time to time you find yourself staring at him, his soft lips slightly parted and your body reacting to that and you entertain certain fantasies that are better not mentioned in polite society, but you can't say you mind to much. It has never bothered you to be attracted to both sexes and logically there certainly is no reason why it should. But then he probably is the kind of person that would be bothered and bothered deeply and seriously. So you don't try anything, because you would not want to miss this friendship any more.

And then one day you're out hunting down some criminal gang.

You silently slip into the warehouse and he stands guard outside, waiting for Lestrade's men to turn up. You jump as you hear the door bolted shut behind you and rush to the window in the hope of drawing attention to your situation but what you see is him being shot down and slumping to the ground and your stomach grows cold, overflowing and flooding your body with coldness. Your mind goes numb and your vision goes swimming and black and then bright red as a man comes up behind you and you smash his jaw in one raging bloodthirsty blow. You're not quite sure how you did it, but in the end there are two men unconscious on the floor and when you hurry back to the window you can't see him any more, only Lestrade's men fussing over him and you run down to the bolted door, hammering and screaming, but it won't open. Someone is shouting at you, that they are going to have the door open soon and that you should just hold out a little longer and stay where you are and you check your own pulse to see if it is really racing like it feels it is and it is and you feel as desperate and helpless as never before in your life.

And finally they get you out and tell you he is fine, no serious injury luckily and relief drowns your body anew and makes your legs go soft. You miss a lot of conversation that is being thrown at you, a fact which you try to conceil hurriedly, feigning poise although that gets difficult when his smile from the back seat of the carriage sets butterflies loose in your stomach, but all in all you feel very, very lucky indeed.

But from that day on, you know you are vulnerable. You have never been vulnerable before, but now you are. Now you can be cut down right to the ground. You have caught yourself a fatal disease and while it does make you happy now, you know it will one day backfire and when it does it will likely do so with a force that will knock you down so hard you won't be able to lift a finger.

Well, you have never been one to deny facts. To someone who relies exclusively on facts to build his world from, denying facts seems an inexplicable foolishness, like wanting to ride a carriage, but cutting a leg right of the horse that pulls it. No, you do not try to deny anything to yourself and you are not one to mope over solid facts either. If that's the way it is, well, than you just have to deal with it. You have got yourself yet another unholy addiction and you know you do not have the strength to go against it.

And so you decide to enjoy every second of it, because you feel for sure the day will come when it will make you loath every second of the rest of your life.

And you _are_ happy, amazingly you are happy for quite a lot of the time in a way that you have never been before. You used to know satisfaction at a puzzle solved and some kind of triumphant feeling as well, but never this slightly drowsy, cosy happiness that often possesses you now. Although he never reacts to your not too heavily concealed seductive charms (which just goes to show that you have fallen in love with a right philistine abstainer, oh well …) you have reason to believe that he cares for you deeply, even if he has an annoyingly patronising way of showing that sometimes.

But you don't mind too much and while concluding that the theory of you not minding being patronised from time to time would suggest that he would not mind being seduced from time to time seems rather far-fetched and ill-founded sadly, you are content. You feel very content with things the way they are.

Nothing this good comes without a price. And pay-day has finally come.

And now you realize that you have bargained far beyond your means. Your life was on the table, or at least all that was worth living, and you are left with nothing, no matter how much reasoning you bring up against this conclusion.

TBC


	3. Principles of Child Rearing

**Big hugs to agenttmk, C Elise, raven612 and mildetryth for reviewing the last chapter.**

**Your kind words keep me going, thank you. **

**I know I am making Mary look worse in this fic than she was in the movie, her character was actually quite likeable, but seriously: She had it coming, getting between this adorable pairing. So I am not feeling sorry for that.**

3. Principals of Child Rearing

The freshly minted Mrs. Watson was not too happy about her husband's behaviour. Just last night, he had come home all shaken up and moody and obviously brooding over something. He didn't say a word about what bothered him, but she knew, and it didn't take too much intuition to tell, that it was once more about Holmes. Tired of asking the same questions over and over again, she decided not to press him and see if he would just calm down on his own or end up telling her about it on his own accord. To be honest, she wasn't sure she wanted to hear it. The situation with Holmes seemed to go nowhere and she was sick of talking it over ever and anon, always repeating the same advice, offering the same words of comfort.

She felt him lying awake beside her as she drifted into sleep that night and when she woke to the absence of a warm body next to her, she wondered if he had slept at all. Sighing she got up to get dressed and prepare breakfast only to find her husband standing in the sitting room, staring out of the window with his face pale and tense, looking awfully overtired. Somehow she didn't feel like going over and greeting him, he seemed strangely distant, and without addressing him, she left for the kitchen.

Halfway through an awkwardly silent breakfast with John barely reacting to any topic of conversation she offered, Mary decided that she had had enough: "So, how come you had a fight again? When did you even meet him?" she asked, the slight annoyance not quite hidden in her voice.

A guilty look crossed the doctor's face and he put the cup of tea down, that he'd been holding for at least five minutes without taking a sip. "I closed early yesterday and went to see him." he confessed. "I guess it wasn't the smartest thing to do, but really, you'd think he'd finally get over his childish jealousy. I don't know what to do any more." Exasperation was clearly written in his features and Mary couldn't help but feel sorry for him. "Please don't wind yourself up about this, Love. Give him some time. He must come to terms with things in the end."

She earned herself a weary sigh at that comment. "I don't see that any more. He's so, … completely keyed up about this. I cannot for the life of me understand why but I don't think he'll be able to come down any time soon. There has to be something I can do." Mary watched as her husband suddenly grasped the air as if a spontaneous idea had come to him. "Mary, you're a governess." he exclaimed eagerly. "You must know how to deal with this. Isn't that a common occurrence in child minding, a new baby is born and his older sibling gets all jealous and difficult? How does one handle this?"

The blonde woman frowned. "Well this is hardly an appropriate analogy, is it? Holmes is a grown man." "I think that concept might be a little fuzzy at the edges." her husband replied, giving a look of sheer resignation. Mary shot him a look of her own: "Really, John." But he wasn't about to give up: "Please, just tell me, maybe I can still get some clues on how to handle this."

Rolling her eyes, she gave in. "All right, if you insist." and continued in a monotone sing-sang: "The whole thing builds on the idea that the older child, being a child, has not yet a firm grasp on human relationships and social interaction." Mary noticed the way her husband's body language expressed that he could all to well draw some kind of analogy from this, but carried on regardless: "It does not know how they work and therefore is convinced that the parent's love for the new baby has replaced their love for the older child, that is, it seriously believes it is not loved any more and also that it might win back its parents' affection by getting rid of the impostor, that is, the newborn child.

So what you do is, you make the child feel secure in your love for it, you do not react angry or disappointed but instead try to reassure the child by all means, being patient and caring. You try not to neglect the child, no matter how much attention the newborn requires, maybe spent some extra-time with the child, doing something special without the new baby.

That is one part, reassuring, making the child understand and take faith in the fact that it is still loved as much as ever.

The second part is creating a relationship between all three, you, and both children. You explain to the child how the new baby is very much in need of care, because it is still so little and it is always a good idea to let the child help taking care of the baby, thus creating a bond between them. What you want to get across, is that you love both children equally and that they should care for each other as well.

The most important thing is not to react angrily to the child's efforts at creating havoc and to not tell it off for that. If you did that you'd only push it away, further underpinning its belief of not being loved any more. Not reacting at all is also bad. The child behaves horrible because it craves your attention as the next best thing after having seemingly lost your affection. Such attempts should not go unnoticed, that would give the child the feeling that it is now of so little importance to you, that you don't even care when it misbehaves. The right approach is to recognize these desperate cries for attention for what they are and react lovingly and reassuringly."

Mary stopped, realizing she had talked herself into quite a sermon, and felt uneasy contemplating the faraway expression on her husband's face. "But John," she began "I don't really think you can just transmit this to …" But he wasn't listening to her any more. "Now I see." he murmured softly. "Oh damn, I think I did absolutely everything wrong."

Mary, who had flinched at the swearword, bit her lip in apprehension. "John," she tried quietly, "you do see that this advice refers to a situation where all three parties are in a way equal. Both children are loved with the same parental affection. And while I have the greatest respect for your deep friendship with Holmes, I hope you are not planning to make him part of our marriage."

It was meant to sound like a joke, but she could not totally eliminate the serious undertones in her voice. The way her husband had been pining and moping ever since they moved in at Cavendish Place seemed strangely suspicious to her. Oh, he seemed happy enough coming home to her, telling her over and over again how lucky he was to have her. But there were those moments when he drifted away, sat in deep contemplation, a permanent frown on his face. Then again he got nervous, started to read a book, put it away again, fidgeted with his walking stick, stalked across the room and back again to grab the paper, only to put it down seconds later with no idea what he'd been reading.

And when Mary asked him what was wrong with him, he just stammered stupid things about a hard day at the clinic. But she read it in his eyes, he had been thinking about that dreadful detective of his again, she recognized the look by now. Mary wasn't sure what she liked less, these halfhearted attempts at keeping his anxiety from her or the moments when it broke out of him in all honesty and he came to her for advice and support.

It wounded and worried her how he turned into a complete nervous wreck at the hands of that manipulative friend of his who was still trying to sabotage their marriage. But John _had_ married her, had pledged his life to her with god as the highest witness and she would not stand for being his number two ever again.

The blonde woman got startled out of her thoughts as her husband grabbed her hand across the oak table. "Mary," he asked, "would you mind if I take Sherlock out for a men's night on Friday evening? Just the two of us, like in the good old days, well, not exactly like that, since the kind of amusement we used to succumb to are behind me now, but, having dinner, maybe going to the theatre or having a drink at the society club. You know, to make him see, that we can still be friends, that I am not abandoning him, just because I am married now."

Mary fought with herself for a moment, but her objections melted under her husband's puppy-eyes. "That's all right, Love, I have been awfully neglectant of my tea circle these past weeks as well. I shall invite the other girls over here and I won't be welcoming you before 10 o'clock. Please don't embarrass me." she added.

It was true, anyway, she was looking forward to meet her friends again and share her thoughts about the latest gothic novel they had bought together. (Mary was not really that fond of detective stories, there seemed to be an unbearable lack of damsels in distress and their gallant suitors.) And who knew, maybe that way the two men could work out their issues and she would finally have her husband's unwavering attention when he was with her.

Even now John seemed already calmer and quite satisfied with himself. "I'd best drop by Baker Street tomorrow and ask him." he announced. "The sooner the better."

Yes, Mary thought resolutely to herself, the sooner you get that emotional ballast out of the way, the better our domestic life is going to be. Smiling again she said out loud: "You do that, Love."

TBC


	4. One step forward

**Seriously, isn't there any good food in this movie at all? Doesn't anybody ever eat anything nice? Can't think of anything. Sandstone in honey-egg-marinade? Pig snouts with just a hint of cyanide? Olives from the Cyclades? I mean, olives are ok, but reviewers deserve better than that. So I'll just stick with the classics:**

**Hugs and chocolate cookies go out to Ravenwood85, agenttmk, Umino Akiko, raven612, Mus4u, mildetryth, Hagstrom, LyraHazelnut an****d tsukihyde**

**Thanks for your wonderful support!**

**Argh, I had this as good as done earlier, but I wrote it down while inspiration was flowing and when I reread it later, I realized I got the stupid tenses all mixed up. And it's so hard to change them, once you put the story down the way it feels right to you, anyway, same thing happened with the next chapter, and I don't yet know how to get that right. But expect a quick update as soon as I figured that out. I might just cheat a little bit …**

Chapter 4: One step forward ...

Taking a deep breath before entering the house, Watson renews his resolution to stay calm and cordial whatever happens. He will make things right this time. So he puts on what he judges to be a reassuring and friendly face as the door opens to reveal Sherlock Holmes, dark rings under his eyes telling of sleep lost in great amounts.

The detective is positively stunned to find his guest return so soon after the ghastly way his last visit had turned out, but catches himself on time for a greeting. "What a pleasurable surprise. I didn't expect you to come around any time soon."

The nearly eerie wide smile plastered on the doctor's face does nothing to ease his bafflement. "Holmes, old boy, I'm afraid I haven't got much time, but I was hoping I could convince you to come out to dinner with me on Friday. Just the two of us, what do you say?" Holmes squints at the grinning grimace sceptically and says nothing at first. "O...K" he then ventures carefully. "Great." Watson announces, just a tad too rackety, "that is great. The Royale? Six o'clock?" The other man still observes him with suspicious eyes, but not finding any clue to a potential trap he nods in confusion. "All right. I'll be there." "Lovely." The doctor declares like a man huckstering vegetables to a head-shaking market crowd. "That's lovely. I'm so looking forward to spend some extra-time exclusively in your company again. That's going to be great." "Uh hu, that's … nice." Holmes offers, the perplexity on his face having grown with each syllable from the friend's mouth. "See you there then, old chap. Six o'clock, the Royale. I'm glad you can make it."

Watson's eyes have taken on a bit of a glassy appearance and the corners of his mouth are starting to hurt with the forceful smiling, but he is very satisfied with himself. He obviously did a good job of putting Mary's advice into practice. Lifting his hat just an inch, he turns to leave, but is held back by an incredulous voice addressing him: "Watson?" He turns, smile still in place. "Yes?" Holmes grabs him by the shoulder and stretches his left eyelid open with two fingers. "Have you been taking any unusual medicine lately?" "Nooo." the doctor answers in long-drawn tones, role slipping with his slight annoyance. "That is more in your field of expertise, isn't it?" "Ah." Letting his hands fall from the friend's face, Holmes now looks more pleased with the situation.

"I am at the moment working on a self-experiment, omitting all kinds of intoxicating or psychedelic substances for a while to see how that changes my state of well-being, by the way." he mentions, visibly more at ease again. "Are you?" Watson questions, surprised and intrigued by this announcement. "How come?" "Um." The smaller man suddenly turns his attention to a seemingly dull collection of dried bird droppings, absentmindedly rummaging around in them. "Well, you might recall, that during your last visit I did display some rather … unbecoming behaviour … um, while my synopses had been thoroughly drowned in all kinds of toxic waste … um … I kind of felt, that that was a rather unfortunate effect and so I figured it might be worth a try to stay sober for a while. The consequences can't be much uglier … um …"

The dark-haired man turns to face his friend again, suddenly meek: "Look, I'm sorry about-" "That's alright." the other interrupts him hastily, but Holmes feels he needs to elaborate: "I wasn't quite myself you know." "I know." Watson assures in kind tones. "I know. And I think it's marvellous that you decided to lay off the drugs." he adds sincerely, now flashing a genuine smile. "For now." Holmes injects hurriedly, looking a little sheepish and squeezing the one remaining bird dropping in his hand. "Whatever." The doctor replies good-naturedly. "It is a project I most decidedly approve of for once." He grins happily and goes on "I'm afraid I have to tend to my patients now. But see you on Friday then. Don't stand me down." he finishes jokingly as makes for the door.

"Not unless Mrs. Hudson miraculously develops at least somewhat sufferable cooking skills over night. I haven't had a decent meal in weeks." Holmes calls after him and Watson smirks although he's sure there is more truth in the statement than its utterer wanted to transmit. Not the part about Mrs. Hudson being a horrible cook of course, she isn't really, but the detective had indeed looked even more wiry than usual and Watson's medic's gaze had not missed that. He probably hadn't eaten properly for quite a while.

But, and the doctor's spirit sings at the prospect, he is going to on Friday night, he will personally see to that. And he has laid off the drugs. Admittedly 'for now' but that's a start and everything looks so much brighter than the day before yesterday it nearly makes him dizzy. Everything worked out much exceeding his expectations, it's like a miracle, nearly uncanny. But John Watson is not a man to look a gift miracle in the mouth when he is granted one. Hell, he is certainly due one after all the shit he had been going through these last weeks. Maybe everything will turn out right now. Evidently living alone is working out positively for Holmes as well. It just took some time, precisely as Mary had foreseen, but now he looks so much better and he is turning from his vices, like Watson himself has done with Mary's help. Yes, he has a very good feeling about this. Finally everything is going to be alright.

Holmes shakes his head in amazement as he watches his friend leave the house, beaming and humming to himself. Well, he is not going complain. Watson forgiving his latest behaviour just like that is a gift that brings much relief to his these days chronically tortured spirit.

And it is true, the events of the doctor's last visit here did convey an urgent message. He has to do something or his life will totally slip from his control.

To be honest he did spend some time weighing the pros and cons of both options, blissful self-abandonment and non-responsibility making a strong claim for the latter, but in the end his vanity won over. He enjoys letting his mind roam free in the realms of expanded consciousness but he also takes pride in the way he can grab the reins again afterwards and have it perform stunts that leave the rest of the world gaping in awe. He does not want to loose himself completely, not really, or at least, not unless the only alternative is to spend the entire rest of his life pining after Watson in that deaf-striking torturous way that he has done for the last weeks.

Which is not very likely if one looks at the situation rationally and detachedly.

Which is a moment a bit hard for him to do, but if he concentrates hard enough, it is possible. Mind over matter. And lovesickness is obviously only some stupid chemicals running amok in the holy sanctuary of his mind (one that is admittedly desecrated by licentious rites from time to time, but at least that is his own doing). They have no reason, they have no underlying arguments for doing what they do and will therefore, in the long run, be defeated.

Or, as Holmes sometimes muses when he is in a more pessimistic state of mind, that might be the very attribute that makes them undefeatable. They are an adversary whose reason he can never detect, whose causal principles he can never unveil. And that thought scares the hell out of him. But he does suspect that the miserable emotional state he is in right now might well be inflicted by the chemicals he himself has introduced into his body. There is a perfect correlation between the measure of his distress and the amount of drugs he has pumped into his veins, both numbers rising exponentially with each passing day of Watson's absence.

And so he is confident that a few weeks clean should suffice to tell him whether he is really destined to loose himself in drugs and misery or whether he will be able to pull himself out of this quagmire by his own hair.

And maybe things are looking better already. After all he has just had a sufficiently normal exchange with the doctor, although there has been something worryingly zombie about the latter at first, but that had passed by the end of the visit.

And they are going to have dinner on Friday. Just the two of them. Like any two good friends with no emotional issues standing between them would. The dark-haired man cannot fight the smile that creeps to his lips. He is going to have dinner with Watson. And immediately he mentally chides himself for being so soppy. Really if he is going to be like this, it is hopeless, he'll never get over him, the whole endeavour will be fated to fail.

Oh to hell with it, 'Dinner With Watson', he repeats to himself. And this time the smile spreads all the way to his ears.

**TBC**


	5. Worlds trembling

**So, Oscar Night's over and Sherlock Holmes only got two nominations (Art Direction and Music (Original Score)).**

**I would certainly have awarded it "Most explicit and adorable slash pairing", but alas, the category doesn't exist.**

**I would have loved to see the nominations for that one ...**

**Anyway, the less widely known "Award for making me crazily happy by reviewing the last chapter" goes to**

**Mus4u, mildetryth, an obsession too far, tsukihyde, LyraHazelnut, Chanthel. and Tanya13**

**You made me smile. :-D**

**There will be some POV-switching in this chapter. But I trust you guys will easily recognize whose eyes we're looking through each time. And yes, I did cheat with the tenses in the second part, sorry, but changing them felt so wrong …**

Chapter 5: Worlds trembling

You have been humming inadvertedly to yourself all day. The hours at the clinic fly like an arrow and you hurry back to Cavendish Place with a joyful anticipation that nearly takes your breath away. You are happy, you are beaming happy and you see no need to hide it.

You dress carefully, though not too carefully, and for the first time in weeks you do not give a little inward sigh at the fact that no piece of your attire is missing from the wardrobe.

It does seem as if Mary is a little tense today, her smiles seem laced with held back irritation, her eyes growing narrow as you dance around her. But you don't care, because you're just in too good a mood to let that pull you down and you kiss her forcefully on the cheek and grin at her and tell her not to frown like that, because she's so much prettier without the frown and she can't help but give a genuine smile to your radiant face. Pecking your lips she tells you to have a nice evening and then you're off.

* * *

You have been dressing for the evening almost three hours early. A verily ridiculous action and you hate to be pathetic.

Still, now that the endless hours have finally drawn themselves out so far that it is indeed time to go, you feel strangely indecisive and unsure of whether you really want to leave. Watching your own actions throughout the day over your own mental shoulder has only served to harden the resolution that you are displaying a totally undignified way of being and you hate it. This is not how you are supposed to be. Not by a long way.

Omitting the drugs has not brought you comfort, it only served to make you see far clearer then you would have ever liked to, what a pitiable state you are in. You are edgy, agitated and all wound up. You spend the day trying to distract yourself and act as normally as possible. Since you don't know how to be normal in your usual way of being normal, because that would require feeling normal, which you don't, you try to enact the normal behaviour of any ordinary person and it drives you mad.

You have breakfast early, complimenting Mrs. Hudson on her toast and eggs, which only results in her giving you a more confused furious look than usually. You go to get a paper, feeling very strongly that you should read the paper while breakfasting. So you leave the food untouched on the table until you come back with your purchase and of course it has gone cold. Not that you usually fuss about cold eggs, them half the time being all that is at hand when you finally remember about eating, but for some extremely irrational reason the ruined breakfast-plans present a blow of the utmost harshness and to your outright horror and disdain you feel your eyes going wet.

Resolute to not give in to this abject over-sensibility you stuff the food in, each mouthful tasting like cardboard, and read the paper as furiously as if it was a malicious enemy. You read all the stupid mind-numbing articles and wonder if anyone ever did before. You can't imagine anyone willing to waste even the lowest kind of brain activity on that.

So you impatiently throw the paper right into the wastebasket and then stop for a moment to ponder what an ordinary person would spend the following hours on.

Probably working, you think, but you have no work at the moment.

Paying social calls maybe, but you have no acquaintances to speak of and anyway this day is tough enough without you having to deal with other people as well.

Take a stroll round the park perhaps, but you hate walking for no reason and being flooded with insignificant data all the while, it bores and irritates you and you only ever did it for his sake and even then rarely and with much reluctance.

There has to be something else. You look out of the window for what feels like ages and when you check your pocket watch it is half past eleven.

Frustrated you muse whether to knock your head at the wall repeatedly or go for a stroll in the park after all and admitting grumpily to yourself that the second option would probably be considered more normal by the average ordinary person you grab your coat and leave the house.

The park is a nuisance and so are all the people in it and for that matter everyone alive on the planet. You walk right round the duck pond four times in a row before your patience cracks and you wonder if you should pass by the yard, to say hello to Clarky and the boys and perhaps annoy Lestrade for a bit, but then you decide that they would think you quite the idiot.

The pocket watch tells you it is just about 1 o'clock and 15 minutes later you stand in a grubby make-shift kitchen, a young spot-faced constable pouring you tea in a stained mug, and you feel like quite the idiot.

You drown your tea in awkward silence, mutter "Well, just passing through." and hurry off, distinctly registering the muffled whispering behind your back.

Back home you bury your face in your hands for a moment, breathing deeply and drop on the couch again, feeling completely stupid. The clock face says 2 pm now and after chewing your knuckles for a while you ring Mrs. Hudson and ask her to bring some tea up.

At your proposal to have a cup of tea with you the landlady throws you one of her fiercest looks ever and slams the pot down in front of you wordlessly. So you drink all the tea on your own, wondering if you dare ask her for pastry, but you're not hungry anyway.

So just about 3 pm you get dressed for the evening, and then you brush your hair, and then you wash your face and then you brush your hair again.

You sit down for a while, staring at nothing and eventually slip down to kitchen silently and secure yourself another pot of tea. Honestly, how much tea can one individual stomach in the course of a single day? The liquid is sickening, but you force it down nonetheless and then you go and brush your hair again.

As the sun mercifully starts to set on your wretched activities you know that it is finally time to leave.

And that is where you stand now. Looking back on that day, there is one thought standing out very tall in your head and it is: I want my life back.

You just can't go on like this and you have a very distinct feeling that you may never recover if you keep seeing him.

And with a resigned sigh, you let yourself fall down on the couch again.

* * *

The Royale is crammed as usual, when you sit down at the pre-reserved table, still feeling a little light-headed and apprehensive. He is not on time, so your excitement subsides a little, which is probably not for the worst and so you sit and watch the busy workings of the restaurant for a while. If you watch long enough it becomes pretty dazzling, bow-tied waiters bustling about, every once in while asking you if you would like to order something, their polite smiles turning more and more forced with every "No, thanks, I'm still waiting for my friend." that you utter, each time less confident.

But he will come, it's his favourite. And _you_ are his favourite, or so you thought and your stomach turns a little more acid with every ounce of confidence in that fact which is lost in the course of the outdrawn waiting.

And when that big lady with the pompous dress and the huge wig, that made quite an ostentatious entrance a while ago, indignantly harasses the waiters about the bill and whether they expect her to sit here waiting until she grows so old she'll be a blooming young lady again, it becomes clear, that he is not coming. And registering this, you feel worry climb in your body, infesting every part from your toes to the tip of each single hair.

Worry that not only he is not coming today, but that he will not come ever again. That in the attempt to distance him, you have pushed him all the way out of your life and that thought makes you sick. You cringe slightly as you try to fit the idea into your mind, but really, it cannot be. There is just no way. You cannot imagine him vanishing from your life completely and neither could he, you're sure of it. Or are you?

And, chair tumbling over as you jump from it, you make a hasty exit under the penetrating stares of the thin-lipped waiters, and not caring what they think of you in the least, you hail the next carriage.

* * *

You have prepared so many stories, so many excuses, and they are good ones, or at least lavish ones, as your flowery style puts them into more and more colourful words, each time you try them out to yourself. You ran over them again and again in your mind imagining in detail what is going to happen, how he's going to react, how you are going to react in turn and how your words, flawlessly spoken with a straight face will finally convince him to leave for good.

And now that he's here, as you expected, as you dreaded, you find that you can't tell these stories to his face.

Your usual eloquence fails you when you need it most direly and you find yourself standing stammering, fumbling for words.

TBC


	6. Worlds shattering

**So, I screwed up with the last chapter and the POV-switching. Sorry for the confusion and for anyone still wondering, it was:**

** Watson - Holmes - Watson - Holmes**

**I hope it hasnt put you off and I'll try and do better with the upcoming chapters, promise.**

**Big THANK YOU to anyone who helped by pointing out weaknesses and of course to everyone who expressed what they liked about the chapter as well. ;-)**

**The muse loves reviews and I am indebted to everyone who provided me with a bribe for her to get this chapter up asap:**

**Curreeus , Ravenwood85, an obsession too far , glasswalker , mildetryth , tsukihyde, LyraHazelnut, Hagstrom and tanya13**

Chapter 6: Worlds shattering

The good Dr. Watson arrives in Baker Street shivering as in his haste he has forgotten to reclaim his coat from the Royale's checkroom. Being slightly out of breath he gives a picture of barely covered anxiety as he stands there waiting for an answer to his "Why didn't you come?", his begging eyes boring into the black-haired man who has taken stance in front of him, unexpectedly lost for words.

The hurt in this blue-eyed stare makes Holmes squirm and break the eye contact. He clears his throat, managing a nearly steady voice: "Well, I thought this through for a considerable time and I came to the conclusion that it would be best for me not to meet you there or … rather at all. Um …" he stops, fidgeting, finding no suitable way to go on and Watson interrupts him: "Sherlock, " – a flinch from the detective at the rare use of his first name, and the other man continues, pleading lying in his sincere tones: "You must know that your friendship is far too valuable to me to loose. Nothing has to change between us. Nothing will, I promise."

"Right. And Wrong." comes the very quiet answer from Holmes. He still doesn't meet the eyes of his friend when he continues in the same low voice. "Nothing changes between us, it is just the same as ever and then again everything changes, because ..., because the perception changes, because I cannot pretend any more. Everything changes, because you change, because every second minute I will be hit in the face by the fact that you are a married man now, and I can't pretend any more." His voice trails off and he looks awfully tired. The resolution and arrogant energy that used to carry him are gone and he suddenly seems a lot smaller.

Watson fights to comprehend, to find the right words to save this, to save the day, to save their friendship, to save the world, or at least his world, carefully redesigned as it has been these last months, from shattering altogether and leaving him with nothing but the shards of former happiness. Frantically he tries to remember Mary's advice on child rearing.

"Please, please I beg you to have faith in the fact, that me being married does not imply I don't …" a short break, but then Watson carries on with only the slightest hesitation "care for you any more." He feels a little embarrassed at this unusual verbalisation of affection, but if that is what it takes to reassure his friend and have everything back to normal again, than he will gladly repeat it.

He bites his lip and feels hope surge in him when Holmes raises his gaze to meet his, but the latter's eyes are heavy with a sadness that feels like a knife to the doctor's stomach. For the fracture of a second none of the two speaks, both just looking at each other and then Holmes sighs, breaking the eye contact once again.

"Don't you see that …" he breaks off and presses index and middle finger of each hand to his eyes, taking a deep breath. The index fingers wander to his temples, the middle fingers meeting above the bridge of his nose and pressing down shortly before falling away from the face. His voice is steadier again when he starts over: "I do not doubt your … affection for me."

"Then why" Watson starts but the other man shushes him with a hand gesture: "I am sure, I am quite positive that you are the most loyal of friends and that our friendship is founded on the deepest respect and, yes affection for each other. I would never ask more of you than you are already giving me and believe me, I do highly value it. It's just, …" he stops, fighting for the courage to continue and when he does his voice has dropped to an even lower level, but in the tense silence of the room each word seems to fall like a piece of lead, echoing around the walls.

"It's just, that it still is not everything that I would wish for and while I did manage fine with me forgoing that, it has proven to be frighteningly hard to deal with someone else getting it. I don't think I can bear to witness that in the long run."

Holmes' gaze has been locked firmly on the ground during that last part of his speech and now that the utter silence in the room starts to hum in his ears he carefully lifts his eyes to the doctor who stands open-mouthed and unmoving and he searches desperately for understanding, for mercy in those milky-blue irises that gaze into nothingness. "It hurts you see." he voices, pleading for a reaction that proves he wasn't a complete fool to trust the man in front of him with his most highly guarded secret.

"Oh." Watson finally manages weakly, his face still flabbergasted. "Oh, well, I, I guess under these circumstances it was ..., you surely made the right decision in abstaining from, you know, I, um, I'm sorry for trying and talking you out of it, I honestly had no idea, I never dreamed, um, maybe I should be leaving." he finishes lamely.

Holmes can only nod wordlessly, biting his lower lip with ferocious intensity, trying to keep his control. "Yeah, that ..., that might be for the best." he finally mumbles. Of course he has expected no other reaction, even fearing far worse, but still the situation somehow achieves to be as painful as if it had been an unforeseen rejection.

Curious, he thinks to himself, how many levels of hurt there are to be reached and this one seems particularly cruel because it grabs him by the hair and forcefully presses his face right into reality, mocking him for ever harbouring even the tinsiest little bit of hope. And the worst thing is that it feels so very deserved and so very humiliating and so very shattering, because it takes the lovely little world away that he has constructed in his mind, seemingly save from reality ever hitting it, and he is left with nothing but the shards.

Watson wonders only for a second whether he had better stay with his friend, but the blow of this revelation, his utter confusion and fear are enough already to send him off running and that unbearably pained expression on Holmes' face is the final straw. He just can't endure to witness this hurt he's caused inadvertently and with a halfhearted "Well, goodbye then." he flees from the room.

His mind is in turmoil once again, there are too many emotions flooding his brain and he can't even tell which ones are really his and which ones just got merged into the chaos that once used to be such a sharp and neatly arranged set of thoughts.

He is not sure he can face Mary now and anyway, he stupifiedly remembers, he isn't welcome before ten, the tea circle.

That information seems to come from a long way off, an entirely different life, and a hysterical laugh breaks from his throat at the mere thought of people having tea circles when the world has just fallen from its hinges, rolling like a pinball pellet and tossing everyone in it around like clay figures, leaving them seasick, lost and without orientation.

TBC


	7. Alcoholic reasoning

**So here's a little quote, that you probably know already, but I just stumbled upon it this week:**

**Michael Madved (former movie critic at the New York Post [and I totally see why "former"]) on 'Guy Ritchie's plan to put a gay spin on the relationship of Holmes and Watson' :"I think they're just trying to generate controversy . . . They know that making Holmes and Watson homosexual will take away two-thirds of their box office. Who is going to want to see Downey Jr. and Law make out? I don't think it would be appealing to women. Straight men don't want to see it."**

**Eh, WHAT? I mean, I do see how it would be a bit disgusting to clean the cinema off all the drool after a screening, but - let's face it - people take worse jobs for money ...**

**But bless Guy Ritchie and his love for bromance. ;-)**

**And bless you, Curreeus, glasswalker, mildetryth, an obsession too far and Tanya13, for your ongoing support and for sticking with the story so far.**

**You guys are great. :-)**

Chapter 7: Alcoholic reasoning

John Watson is not a happy man.

Insight, enlightened knowledge is supposed to be what man strives for in life and finding it is supposed to lead to satisfied serenity, or something like that Holmes used to tell him.

Well, he, Watson, has found cognizance and it doesn't make him feel serene or satisfied at all. It baffles him and shakes him off balance and it makes him tear himself up in endless repetition of the same dilemmata.

He misses Holmes like hell and knowing that he may never be close to him again makes it a whole lot worse. And his heart aches at the notion that his friend is probably miserable as well, making him want to rush over to Baker Street every other minute to check if he is alright.

And again and again he frets about his attraction to the dark detective. The fact that it is mutual certainly does not make it any better. But it does make it harder to bear, harder to deny. Whenever he tries to convince himself again that these are no sincere emotions, just fake ones brought on by to much closeness for a far too long time, he sees Holmes standing in front of him again, face contorted by pain and longing.

And he just cannot judge these feelings to be false. Apart from the fact that this interpretation seems utterly cruel, there is too much sincerity in that expression, it just has to be honest. And granting his friend's feelings their legitimacy he has a hard time treating his own ones as meaningless side effects.

But whether or not they are as deep-felt and significant as the demand to be is beside the point. They are still highly improper and anyway, he is a married man now, so that makes it twice as vicious.

And somehow Mary is not a comfort any more. She is lovely and she does everything and that is a whole lot more than he deserves for the way he treats her, but now he sees her for what she is, a meagre substitute and she is never enough.

He hates himself for hurting her, but he can't help but stay out of her way most of the time. Her touch has started to clog his pores and he feels his skin dry out and turn all itchy when she holds him.

He throws himself into his work, avoiding their mutual home as much as possible. The place seems to suffocate him.

And like a mantra he tells himself over and over again, that it will get better with time, he will get over this, he will adapt to his role as a loving husband and he will spend his life with Mary, as content as he can be. And then he goes home, resolute to play his part perfectly now, because that is the only way and because she deserves the best he can give. And so he forces a smile and sits with her, trying to pay attention to her chattering, but the only thing that he does register after a while are the tears welling up in her eyes and he loathes himself for sitting glued to his spot instead of taking her in his arms but somehow his body is all paralysed.

And he drinks. He drinks like a whole cruise liner crew of sailors, to drown out the nagging thoughts that constantly pester him, pouring anything down his throat that the uncaring barman pushes at him. And the more he drinks, the less he can find distraction in his work, because he's too hung-over to concentrate on anything. Pretending to be the ideal husband doesn't work either when he stumbles in late at night and the bedroom reeks of alcoholic effluvia in the morning. And Mary turns her nose up at him, and turns her face away and doesn't speak to him any more.

And so, by the end of the day he sticks to the only option left available, which is the booze, returning to the same dump he had half-fallen out of in the small hours of the day, the barman disinterestedly pouring a large glass for him before he even sits down.

And at last, about ten highly suspicious mugs later, he comes to the stage where he finds peace instead of depression and while his thoughts still return to the ever same subject again, they have undergone a miraculous transition and are not as sinister and dreary as they used to be. The answer is simple, Watson realizes with a sudden jolt. He can just go over and take his friend and simultaneously himself out of their pitiful misery. And here, in his alcoholic reasoning, that seems like a marvellous plan.

Holmes is of course awake, probably with some obnoxious experiment, he rarely sleeps during the night, but he is nonetheless stunned by the late visitor on his threshold.

"John. You've been drinking." he states and it takes no superior intellect to deduce that by one glance at the dishevelled doctor. Smelling him would entirely suffice.

Watson shrugs. "I miss you. And then I just keep drinking." he declares casually, as if he has no care to speak of in this world.

Holmes lifts a calculating eyebrow and replies: "You'd better go home. I don't want you to regret anything tomorrow."

"No." the doctor disagrees loudly and vehemently. "No, I don't want to go. I came for you." "I came for you." he repeats, now in lower tones, but stubbornly persistent.

Holmes looks at him saying nothing for a moment, different emotions fighting for dominance on the battleground of his face.

He looks utterly delicious, Watson decides and makes use of the momentary break to rummage in his drunken mind for a way to go on from here. How did one proceed? He remembers the first time he kissed Mary. He had taken her hand looking her deeply in the eyes and had gallantly asked "May I?" and she had presented her cheek in the most ladylike manner for his lips to brush over. But he does not see that working in the current situation. The only other experience he can revert to is the rough making-out in the bars of ill repute, where inebriated people just grabbed someone and smooched them. This seems more appropriate since he is most decidedly drunk right now. But he has never done anything like that, can he really …, oh to hell with it …

And thus, suddenly, a completely unprepared Holmes has a pair of wet, booze-soaked lips crushing onto his own. As he tries to push the taller man away, the latter looses his balance, slumping forward onto his friend. Hobbling a few steps backwards to keep them both from tumbling over, the detective finally manages to hold his friend at arm's distance. "You're plastered." he states dryly. Watson grins at him with all the optimism of the righteously drunk. "But you still like kissing me." After a second's silence Holmes answers quietly: "Yes. I do."

Grinning even wider Watson manages to catch the other man off his guard once again by abruptly pushing him forcefully on the nearby sofa, his mouth gleefully seeking out the uncovered area of skin around the neck before finding its way back to the face again. As he runs impatient hands over the body squashed underneath him the doctor starts to tug clumsily but violently at the shirt that hinders his contact with the bare flesh.

Holmes struggles a little more, albeit weakly, for his own dignity's sake, but who is he trying to fool? He has always had an addictive personality and the thought that he will probably feel awful in the morning has never stopped him from giving in to temptation. So he just lets his already overavid body take over.

TBC


	8. Hygiene and other trivia

**Hey, hey, two more chapters to go (i.e. this one and the next one)**

**I was looking forward to fanfiction taking a less prominent role in my life again after finishing this story, cause it really takes up so much free time, but then I just started on a new story, gah.**

**So I will definitely see if I can get it outlined beginning to end before I'll start uploading anything, but there might be a new story soon.**

**But all my heartfelt best wishes go out to Curreeus, glasswalker, ****an obsession too far and ****LyraHazelnut** **who are seeing _this_ story through with me. It does mean a lot, thank you.**

Chapter 8: Hygiene and other trivia

If, a few weeks ago, anyone had foretold the neat Dr. Watson that he would one day wake up, cold, sweaty and naked on the couch in Baker Street, covered only by Holmes' infamous patchwork-coat, he wouldn't even have deemed that person worthy of a look, much less a proper answer.

But this is exactly the situation he finds himself in, with the addition of a headache that suggests a whole shipyard had been dropped squarely on top of him.

He sits up cupping his pulsating head in his hands and moans, a little irritated at the fact that he is completely undressed, but feeling too sick at the moment to fret much about it. Blinking at his clothes that are strewn around the floor he tries to remember what exactly happened last night and when his drowsy memory throws up a few pictures he feels like throwing up as well. "Oh my god." he whispers, horrified, eyes going wide in recollection.

"Ahem." There is cough from the door frame and Watson carefully turns his face round, steadying it with both hands. The sight of Holmes (who has apparently been up for a while, since he is fully, if carelessly dressed) standing there, all tense and vulnerable, unconsciously chewing his lip, makes the doctor's heart cry out for him. "I'm so sorry." he says weakly.

Holmes' face remains unmoving but his voice is dull when he answers: "Don't be. You didn't force me." The other leans back on the couch, still holding his head firmly. "No, but I should have been more considerate of your feelings." There is no answer and Watson closes his eyes, facing the ceiling. Then his head slumps forward again, falling in the scaffold of his fingers once more. "What am I am going to do now?" he mutters and then suddenly faces his friend, blue eyes wet and all desperation as he states: "I don't know what to do."

Slowly the smaller man walks over to him and starts patting his shoulder timidly and then awkwardly pulls him into a rather stiff embrace, the doctor's face buried in his chest. But when the latter starts relaxing and sobbing into his friend's shirt, Holmes tightens his arms around him, nestling his nose into the mess of dark-blonde hair.

'Please stay.' he wants to murmur into the greasy locks. 'Please just stay.' If only because he never said it before or at least not like that. But he can't bring himself to voice the words although every fibre in his body screams them, making his ears ring.

And then Watson pulls back from the embrace and wipes his eyes, looking embarrassed and pulling Holmes' coat tighter around his hips. "What a mess." he says sniffing. "What a godawful mess."

"Are you referring to yourself or the situation?" his friend inquires and the doctor even manages a small cynic smile. "The description fits both candidates quite accurately I think." "Hm." Holmes nods in agreement. "But one of the two is a little easier to clean up." Watson snorts ironically. "Well, yes." "Alright, I can call on Mary after lunch and tell her that the marriage is off, but how on earth we are supposed to get that horrible stench off you is beyond me. It's seems to have eaten right into your skin."

Seeing the pained look the doctor shoots him, Holmes realizes he is certainly not in the mood for that kind of jesting right now and mentally slabs himself for being so tactless. He turns his gaze away, mumbling a quiet "Sorry." Watson sighs in reply to that: "Damn it, Sherlock, you can be so … but, anyway, I'm at fault here. This is my fault entirely."

He pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to shake the daze from his head and continues: "I guess, I have to come up with a way of cleaning up my mess myself. I just can't think of anything. I wish I didn't have too." And running a hand round his neck, massaging the stiff muscles he adds: "I think I should get dressed first, I'm highly uncomfortable sitting here all in the buff, I can't concentrate like that, it totally distracts me."

'Me too.' Holmes nearly injects, but he bites his tongue on time, feeling that innuendo would not be appreciated at this moment either. "Would you like to take a bath?" is what he offers instead. Watson looks down on himself, sighing. "Like? No. But it's probably necessary, yes?" Questioning eyes turn on the detective who gets up from the coach and turns away from the gaze. "Yes, it is. By all measurable standards it is. I'll tell Mrs. Hudson to prepare the kettle."

With the last words he is already on his way to the door. He doesn't turn to the "Thanks." that is thrown at his back, but focuses on walking steadily, bothering the lower lip again and feeling a little light-headed as he tries to figure out why on earth he is on his way to see his abominable landlady about some stupid hygiene item when the man who holds his heart in firm capture and who just a few hours ago made his body glow white-hot under his hungry touch is right now sitting naked on his couch.

He doesn't come up with any even remotely reasonable explanation for that.

Mrs. Hudson raises an eyebrow in mock surprise at Holmes' request for bathwater. Since he isn't in the best of moods anyway he just glares at her and hurries back up the stairs.

He knocks, because he knows John Watson to be a coy man although it seems quite an absurd gesture in the face of last night's events. As he enters the room, the doctor has dressed, amazingly accurate for someone who is just about to take a bath and Holmes wonders if maybe he has missed something important. How come that trivia seem to rule the progress of the day all of a sudden? Wasn't this some kind of life or death situation just a few minutes ago? Wasn't there a really substantial crisis in the air, the further course of which might have changed his life forever? He blinks and gestures at the door. "Your bath should be ready in about 15 minutes."

"Thank you." the taller man responds and then asks, a little worriedly: "You didn't tell her it was for me, did you?" "No. No, of course not." Holmes replies, still dumbstruck with the shallowness of the conversation. "Said it was for me." Watson gives a halfhearted smile. "So what did Mrs. Hudson say to you wanting to take a bath?"

And somehow this is too much, the detective throws his hands up in irritation. "She scoffed at me of course. But why the hell are you inquiring after Mrs. Hudson at a time like this? Did you sleep with her as well?"

The very second the words have left his tongue, Holmes squeals inwardly for being so insensitive again. He knows, he knows, he knows, his terrible lip, always running away with him. And he turns away, frustrated and annoyed at himself.

He hitches a short breath as a hand curls carefully around his shoulder, lets himself be turned around a bit, but refuses the eye contact. "I'm sorry." comes Watson's seriously guilty voice. "Yeah, so you said." the other man announces to the carpet.

"What do you want me to say?" The tone is soft, not in the slightest reproachful. Holmes snorts mirthlessly: "The truth of course. Whatever it is." And only now he meets the sympathetic blue eyes again with a forced smile. "You know I rely on facts to find solutions." The doctor nods slowly and then his voice comes quiet but firm: "The facts are that I am bound to Mary by the holy sacrament of marriage and that same-sex relationships are illegal and severely punished and that I love you more than anyone or anything else in this world."

The shorter man swallows as the other stares at him steadfastly. "Hm. And what do you make of that?" Watson sighs and lets his arms that had been softly resting on the other man's upper body, fall to his sides, gaze wandering to the ceiling. "I don't know what to make of this. The only realistic way of going on from here that I can see, is going home to Mary, pretending this never happened and making sure it won't ever happen again."

"Hm." is all Holmes arrives at replying to this, industriously digging the nails of one hand into the opposing arm. The doctor's eyes fall back on his friend's face and he seems uncharacteristicly young and helpless when adding: "But that is also the only option I cannot imagine to bear living with. I couldn't look Mary in the eye, like ever. And I'd die of yearning for you."

"Then stay." the other man whispers, barely audible. "Stay. Please." Watson is taken aback how fragile his friend seems now, while the dark eyes, that have so often set fire to his brain, bore right into him. He longs to kiss him, but how does one do that? He stretches his hand out carefully to cup the unshaven cheek but hesitates, hovering right in front of it instead. "May I?" he asks bashfully and Holmes just shakes his head in incredulity, grabs his neck and crashes their mouths together into a bitter-sweet kiss.

And when Mrs. Hudson comes knocking to say that the bath is ready she is not overly surprised to have a "Oh for God's sake, I do not want to take a bloody bath!" thrown at her through the closed door. And, huffing indignantly and mumbling to herself how she will not stand for being treated like this, she makes her way back down to the kitchen.

TBC

**This isn't the last chapter, because, well this isn't resolved by far, but I couldn't get them any further at the moment.**


	9. Epilogue

**So yes, I'm cheating, I have no idea how they can pull it off either, but because I wanted them to get their well-deserved happy ending, here they are now, miraculously together and the way they are supposed to be, really. **

**Don't tell me it's not realistic, that's the beauty of fanfiction, being able to make things the way you'd like to see them.**

**Thank you: an obsession too far, mildetryth, glasswalker, tanya13, Curreeus and tsukihyde**

**for sticking with me throughout the ups and downs of this story. Not least it were your comments and opinions that kept me going and encouraged me to continue the story.**

**And thank you Lolryne for reading and reviewing.**

**And thanks to all the other readers, for taking the time and giving their attention, so my words didn't get washed out into the vastness of the fanfiction realm unnoticed.  
**

9. Epilogue

A country estate near Chichester. Inside the generous hall, decorated with old and fading tapestries, we find two men: one, small and dark, lounging about on the sofa and the other one, taller and fairer, leaning back in an armchair, both looking immensely bored.

Sherlock Holmes lets his gaze, that has been scanning the surrounding woodland through the huge window on his right, drift back to catch his friend's attention. "I hate the country." he declares dryly. Watson can help but chuckle a little. "Me too." he agrees, stretching his legs.

"I mean, look at those woods outside. Nothing but squirrels and fir cones for the next 50 miles." the detective complains and goes on to take a look around the room, a disdainful frown contorting his features. "And did you notice what an absolutely awful taste my brother has in wall decoration? These tapestries have been preying on my mind ever since I first entered the room and I swear they are starting to make me physically sick."

The other man grins at this display of distaste. "You don't get along too well with your brother, do you?" he asks. Holmes turns to his friend again: "We don't have a lot in common." The doctor snorts. "No, you certainly don't."

"But still," he goes on "it is a good thing to be away from London, the stress and all the gossip. I for my part do feel like a little peace and quiet after the chaos of the last weeks." "Hm," the smaller man seems not quite of the same mind. "I can't for the life of me say why people are making such a fuss over a simple procedure like a divorce." "Well, I hate to break it to you Sherlock, but your opinion is by far not representative of what could be called the general consensus in our society." Watson explains, shaking his head a little. "The church happens to have a considerable influence over what is judged as propriety or scandalousness in these times."

"Pah." the detective replies. "You know, if there was any supreme being, that was whimsical enough to take any interest in the love life of its creatures, I'd suspect it to be the kind of character who squeals delightedly at people 'struggling and tempting fate to be with their one true love'."

Watson snorts again, pulling an amused face at these last words but then continues a little wearily. "Well, I don't think it is about love. The principal duty seems to consist in providing offspring." "Hum." Holmes strikes his chin thoughtfully. "We did save quite a few lives in our time already. I guess in the large picture that counts for something."

Watson sighs again. "Well, I don't see a lot of people agreeing with you on that. If you will remember, Mary's brother came at me with a scythe." The detective pulls an angry face at the recollection of that event. "The brute. I'm certainly glad we got you of this family circle."

Hearing these words, a sad shadow falls onto the doctor's face. "We did achieve that by all counts. Mary won't ever talk to me again I'm sure." Sighing he puts his chin in his hands. "But she has perfect right to refrain from it of course. You can't dump people and then expect them to keep offering you their friendship and sympathy, that would be horribly selfish. Narcissistic even I think. Still, it does make me a little sad. I shall miss her."

The doctor has put up a very serious face, with just a hint a self-proclaimed martyr, as he continues: "But that is something I will just have to live with. I made my choice." "Oh would you stop being so melodramatic." Holmes interrupts him irritatedly. Watson is indignant: "It _was_ melodramatic. Highly so, I think."

The other man pulls a face and grabs a book from a nearby table. "Well, I can't deny that I am partial to a bit of melodrama myself sometimes. Revealing the dazzling mysteries behind a complex puzzle to a stunned audience – I do have a taste for that sometimes, depends on my mood of course. But this is more the kind of melodrama you find in the dime novels and that doesn't become me at all." "Well, like it or not, you have been right in the middle of it, just a few weeks ago." Watson retorts.

Holmes, now seemingly absorbed by his reading, shows little reaction and just mutters: "Well, I hope you're not putting any of it in those scribbles of yours." The doctor gives him a very deadpan look: "Yes. After all the rather considerable efforts we put into concealing the nature of our relationship I am going to put it in a novel. Which shall be published in the daily newspaper. Should hit the streets like hot cakes on a stick."

The detective still doesn't look up. "Well, just make sure that you're describing my gorgeous body and how its distinct male sexuality gets you permanently exited in all detail." he demands. "You're awful." Watson comments. "Hm." the dark man shrugs and keeps on reading, stretching out more comfortable on the couch.

Watching him the doctor gets the definite feeling that there are much more interesting things he could be doing with those talented fingertips of his than turning clammy pages. "You _do_ look gorgeous you know." he offers, trying to get his intentions across. "I know." the detective answers in those same absorbed tones, but then suddenly glances up sharply and right at his friend.

"I know." he repeats more intensely. "I know, I know, I know. I … I still can believe you did not realize this any earlier." And he shakes his black locks in mock bewilderment. Watson shoots him a look and chews his lip a little. "You know," he contemplates, "if you are going to be as insufferable as that for the rest of our stay here, I will have to think of a way to shut you up." Holmes grins at him, feigning worry. "Oh dear."

"Or I might just hit you." Watson announces provocatively. "You don't like hitting me." the detective states unmoved. "Ah, that depends totally on the circumstances. You should not simply generalize this." the other man retorts. His friend sighs deeply as if making a great sacrifice: "Oh if you must then. But I really have to say, it does not turn _me _on."

Upon this, the doctor shakes his head, a hint of frustration audible in his voice: "You're such a nuisance." Holmes isn't bothered at all. Grinning over the rim of his novel, he gives his friend a smug look: "But you adore me." Instead of answering, Watson puts his face in his hands and then shakes his head again, this time by the sound of it doubting his own mental health when he resumes: "I must be out of my mind."

The other man's features are hidden behind the hardcover again. "Yes. That's what you always say." "How comforting." the doctor spats, sulking a little at the lack of attention.

Growing aware of the change in the atmosphere – wasn't there a foreshadow of sex in the air just a moment ago? – Holmes waves his hand and tosses his book to the floor carelessly. "Enough of that. I'm bored. Come over here, I want to make out with you." The other man raises an indignant eyebrow at him and doesn't move from the armchair. "Because you're bored? How flattering."

The detective sighs. "You know, you don't _have_ to be difficult, just because you happen to take the female part in this relationship." "The female part?" Watson replies, now seriously annoyed. "I think I'd quite _like_ to be difficult right now, thank you very much." Holmes rolls his eyes. "Suit yourself, princess."

The doctor growls at that comment for a moment and stares angrily at Holmes, who has fully stretched out on the couch and looks at ceiling, seemingly disinterested. The taller man gets up with a defeated sigh, walks over to the couch and slumps down there on the floor, leaning his back against the soft fabric. "I hate you." he declares, talking to the empty air in front of him.

"I hate you too." a casual voice answers from behind him and he feels Holmes shifting on the couch again to allow his hands to draw tiny circles on his friend's neck. "Actually, I hate you so much, I'm planning on making you chronically miserable by imposing my company on you for the rest of your life." he adds, busily entwining his fingers in the doctor's hair. The latter smiles and, playing along, answers: "Oh, we shall see who is going to be more miserable. Because I'm determined not to leave your company again."

The fingers stop in mid-caress for a moment before Holmes' answer comes quiet and more serious. "I hope so." Watson turns round at the change of tone and looks at his friend sympathetically. "Now, don't go sentimental on me, Sherlock. You know I will just get sentimental as well and then you'll scold me for it." "I certainly will." the dark man returns, playing down his emotional agitation. Watson leans back against the couch again, enjoying the gentle touch on his skin and breaths deeply, eyes glazing over. "But that would be wonderful. You and me, growing old together."

"Oh dear, there you go already." Holmes exclaims throwing his hands up in the air. "Don't picture it. Or you will be running off into those positively revolting woods ere I could even yell "bark beetle infestation", never to come back out of them again." Taken aback, the doctor turns to face him again. "Now why would I do that?"

The other man shakes his head at him. "Can't you see it? The both of us bald, wrinkly asses and pudgy skin strewn with age spots, bickering all day long." "And warts?" Watson throws in, grinning mischievously. "Possibly." his friends replies, without letting show he got the allusion and keeps on: "You with your bladder-troubles, me half-deaf on both ears, complaining continuously that you never tell me anything and you barking at me that you do, but that I'm to dumb and demented to register it. Me borrowing your dentures because I permanently forget where I put my own and you getting furious when you fish them out of the teapot. Do I have to go on?" the detective asks looking down at Watson who smiles up at him fondly.

"That sounds great." the doctor announces sincerely and happily. Holmes opens his mouth to give a snippy retort but then falters under the lovefilled gaze: "Actually it does."

_The End._

**And now I feel comfortable leaving them to their own resources.**

**They seem to manage fine by now. ;-)**


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